Electric Soul
by Anna Marcelli Palmer
Summary: All that's left of my life is the mental equivalent of a slideshow.
1. Dawn

**_"And all the ways_**

 ** _I've got to know_**

 ** _Your pretty face and Electric Soul"_**

 ** _~Lana Del Rey,_ Young and Beautiful**

* * *

 **Part One: Dawn  
**

* * *

Life used to be so simple before I met you.

I wasn't what you'd call a mysterious girl; I never wanted anything more than a life shared with the man of my dreams, a life of no complications and big questions; a life of love, but not the kind that makes your heart bulge underneath your ribcage in excruciating pain.

That is, until you happened.

The world is an ugly place, isn't it? You think you've got it all figured it out, and then all of a sudden you are stranded amidst the storm; a storm no one ever warns you of. Our own mortality, I reckon, is probably the best thing that ever happened to the lot of us, no matter how hard we try to postpone it; life is, essentially, an erotic transaction between longing and exasperation.

Of course, you will never have to be familiar with any of that. Decay. Change. Death. The inevitable end of everything you've ever grown fond of.

I don't have the slightest idea why this came to my mind now that time is running short. We function in mysterious ways, and I am just an old woman babbling incoherent things while crawling before God's doorstep. Almost surreal, isn't it? It looks as though it were yesterday, when I was an inane teen, and you were merely an aloof acquaintance. Deep down, my heart insists I am still the same underage girl, all insecurities and childish enthusiasm; frankly, I might even still be this way, no matter the decades speeding by. Maybe it's my body that has aged, changed beyond recognition, so much so that I am ashamed of even eyeing you directly. Bloody hell. I am so old, wrinkled and ugly, and yet as embarrassed as a thirteen-year-old schoolgirl. Funny, innit?

Tragic, but funny.

Obviously, you are astonishingly youthful and handsome. Almost painful to look at, just like you were approximately sixty years ago, back to a day when I was a silly kid that knew nothing of the world. Sixty years later, and I unerringly adore you, can you believe it? I am dying within a horrid, murky hospital room, medical substances pumping through me with every passing minute, and yet, the sole thought that can cross the mind is you. Your hair. Your unfathomable crimson eyes. Your beautiful everything.

Shadow the Hedgehog. I love you more than secular words could ever express.

It is hard to tell, at this point, whether I am managing to get this confession across or simply muttering nonsensical gibberish. Communication between us was severely hampered after the first stroke, and by the time the second came my mouth could barely connect to what transpired within my head. Old friends and curious neighbors that occasionally dropped by were usually mortified by this state of affairs-some even looked at me with a kind of slimy compassion that implied I am hereby an official vegetable. A certified plant. But I am only trapped within this incapacitated conglomerate of cells my spirit lives and thinks in. You were the only one to know this, even though many people believed that you don't have a soul of your own.

You doggedly insisted on reading me the news, and devoted entire hours to my non-responsive figure, constructing conversations out of thin air; you talked, and talked and talked, and I could only hope that my eyes betrayed the whole spectrum of thoughts and emotions that passed through me like shooting stars. I must have been successful, at least to an extent, because you always seemed to answer the exact questions I could no longer pronounce in a verbal manner.

And you absolutely and unabashedly hated all those slimy visitors with their ludicrous, vomit-inducing sympathy.

Anyway. This monologue, this dying testimony- it almost certainly plays exclusively within my expiring brain. But this is all that can be done, and with a tad bit of luck you might feel some of it. The significant bits.

Bits of happiness, and bits of shared life.

I thank you for them.

* * *

 **Electric Soul**

 _A story by A.M. Palmer_

* * *

"That's indecent."

It was. Terribly so; I was fourteen, curled in a ball outside someone else's apartment, crying relentlessly and earning weird looks from passersby. It wasn't the first time and it certainly wouldn't have been the last, hadn't it been for you incidentally being nearby. Head buried between my knees in rage and burning shame, I hadn't even sensed you approaching. We had never officially interacted during the two years we'd known one another, apart from a couple of times I had had to talk you into something important. You'd never addressed me directly before, so your first spoken words to me were technically those: _That's indecent_.

Distinctly remember untangling clenched limbs, raising a flushed face, gracing you with the most impossibly bratty glare there could ever be. "Says the guy who thought it'd be cool to blow the world to bits, because some nutcases killed a girl."

I regretted the line as soon as it escaped my lips, and immediately felt stupid. As if propelled by a hidden mechanism, you shifted your weight slightly forward and started lowering yourself at a steady yet dramatically slow pace. When our eyes were finally on the same level my heart sank under the net weight of that scarlet, wooden gaze.

"Says the guy", you emphasized every syllable spoken, "Who tries to save your sorry asses even though he believes most of you ants aren't really worth saving."

In an extreme showcase of teenage temperament, I used the last argument that still seemed available, and stuck out my tongue.

"That's indecent, too", you seemed moderately amused by the conversation's direction so far, even though to this day it remains a mystery what made you start it in the first place. The ever so subtle smirk on those lips rendered your face absolutely slappable, if eerily captivating. "Say, has it ever crossed your mind how ungrateful of you it is to try to force him into feeling something he cannot?"

"This is none of your business."

"Of course it is not. You can make a fool of yourself until Hell freezes over, for all I care. But you are being unfair to the Faker, even through I regrettably admit it's been entertaining."

I pretended not to be paying vivid attention, however that was the exact opposite of true. The initial pang of shame subsided and gave its place to a new, overmastering kind of utter embarrassment never experienced before. It was almost funny, in retrospect, how those few pieces of advice triggered basic mental connections I'd never managed to make on my own. _Ungrateful. Unfair_. This was not what I had intended to be- not that I really had a clue with regards to what I had intended to be.

Wiped my nose on the back of my sleeve like a spoilt child, then jeered as nonchalantly as possible.

"Oh, you think you are so wise and serious and above everybody else! Tell me, Shadow the Edgy-Hedgy; does it ever get chilly on your high horse?"

You seemed overtly baffled for a fraction of a second before, for the first time ever, I saw you laugh. It was unexpected and intriguing, like some kind of rare physical phenomenon, but oddly comforting nonetheless.

"You know, if you were as brutally natural around him as I just witnessed, he could at least find you remotely funny."

"..."

"And now excuse me, I am on a mission."

"I don't give a rat's ass." trying to sound badass, I bitterly realized I only gave the impression of a clinical retard. You left without another word, sped by, and drifted out of sight.

Amy Rose, the immature weakling, Amy the annoying brat. She stayed on those dirt-ridden stairs for hours on end, shrouded in thoughts. When she reached what she believed were the right conclusions, she took a deep breath, nodded to the Universe and to no one in particular at the same time, and collapsed in the most thorough, ruthless, unappealing, loud, honest tears of her entire life.

* * *

Hardly a week passed before I started begging Rouge –your comrade and one of the surreally few people who ever took me seriously- for a clue with regards to your whereabouts. She was hesitant at first, but through conversation I managed to leech just enough information to conclude you passed a great deal of your free time alone at the tiny harbor. And that's precisely where I found you, bathed in the unforgiving morning sunlight, immersed in what looked like deep rumination. You didn't notice me right away, absorbed as you were by the shimmering sea and peaceful frothing sound of the waves. If there is a picture of you I would want to keep with me deep into a possible afterlife, this is the one: Your lean figure, painted in the colors of dawn, otherworldly and darkly fascinating, as you listened to the world _breathe_.

"I want you to train me", I said. Can't say exactly what I was bargaining for, if anything. Your ears twitched almost imperceptibly, but apart from that, you remained as unmoving as a mountain.

"Of course I won't. You are too squishy."

I felt the heat build up in my cheeks, blood pumping haywire in my temples. Fists clenched. I hated it that you pretended to be unbreakable and perfect, hated you for rubbing my faults in my face. I had, after all, somehow inhibited your descent into madness a couple of years prior.

"Listen. You were right. I've been an idiot. There is a lot more to do than spend my days trying to force someone to like me."

"Humph."

"The problem is."-I took a deep breath in order to avoid stammering, and wiped a pair of sweaty palms against the front of my dress-"The problem is that, for years, chasing is all I've ever known. Which means I can't...-"

I kept staring at my shoes, shifting from foot to foot in an awkward dance. Everything was crumbling in the haze of total panic, and it felt almost unnerving to hear myself speak up.

"...I can't do anything else. And I'd really like to be strong, and useful. There, I said it."

The silence thickened so much that my rebellious heartbeat was almost audible. It took you minutes to form a reply, and those moments translated into eons in my young head.

"I don't have any spare time to waste on your girly shenanigans, and besides, not everyone has the luxury of a mentor. Life won't ask for your permission before it starts throwing shit at you."

You had your back turned on me the entire time, so there was no facial expression to decipher, no reaction to assess. Shoulders slouched, morale broken, I swallowed my indignation and walked away that day, only to come back the next, and the next, and the one after it. Days, weeks passed, and after nearly a month of being a constant nuisance, I managed to get what I wanted, on the condition that I train on my own whenever you had to be away on duty.

* * *

...So it began. You were initially reluctant, restrained, but this was new to us both and the effort required in order to make it work on either end was soon proved to be engaging. We trained early in the morning and after dusk, on the Green Hill, at the Mystic Ruins, in alleys and deserted parts of the town. You were almost always silent apart from the advice you periodically provided, yet extremely patient and discreet. The rest of the day could be fun or plain awful, interesting or boring, but none of that would matter by training time because everything melted into the cathartic pain of physical exhaustion. Deep down, I sensed –and hoped- that our shared agenda felt redeeming to you as well, if not always, then at least sporadically.

Thanks to your guidance, I saw myself change in ways unimagined; I learned how to let go, how to get over what I felt, how to fall and get up again. How to persist. I caught myself waiting impatiently for our sessions, chewing on my nails in heated anticipation, sometimes even overdoing working out due to sheer enthusiasm.

Our friends did not take it lightly, as expected, partly because they didn't entirely trust your intentions. Sonic, in particular, thought that I was just seeking ways to attract "attention". I didn't blame him, of course, because he always meant well and that was probably his way of manifesting that, deep down, he cared. Through endless talk, and with some help from Rouge, I managed to convince them that they had misunderstood us both; we were fixing one another.

Nearly a year passed that way. The first time I ever managed to pin you to the ground, you were so ecstatic that you insisted we go out and celebrate. The proposal was so out of character that it had me beaming like a buffoon for an entire afternoon, heart ablaze with pride and excitement. Not only had I become an accomplished fighter, I also possessed concrete proof that you were legitimately, _frankly_ interested in my progress- so much so, that you had for once decided to do away with your recluse etiquette and _celebrate. With me._

That very same night I tasted alcohol for the first time ever. I looked older than my age back then, the dress I wore was deceptively ladylike, and anyway, you didn't seem to mind at all because you hardly ever drank yourself. We meekly sat next to one another and, even when out of things to say, we just relaxed and comfortably shared the silence. The bar was writhing with people, submerged in the vivid susurration of active conversations and music, but it all swirled in an incoherent mass within my head. City lights and busy nightlife; I was growing up beside you.

At some point, I shyly confessed that I found it strange of you to seem so delighted and carefree. Your eyes delved into mine, you smiled the most disarming smile I had ever seen, and replied that it was because you considered me to be one of the very few decent accomplishments of your entire life.

The declaration had me staring nervously at the liquid contents of my glass. "But you have saved so many lives."

We were so close that I could hear the fluctuations of your breath before you spoke. You said, "I am not as heroic as you might think."

A nudge to the rib, a small giggle to break the ice. "Sure thing, Shadow the Edgy Hedgy."

It was a ridiculously _happy_ moment.

* * *

The years sped by, as they casually do; happy moment after happy moment, memory after memory. Bit by bit, we didn't just heal one another- we were transformed into completely new versions of our former selves. By the time I was eighteen, we had established a weekly ritual of training, going places, meeting friends, or merely being silly together. And, thanks to our common efforts, I was finally a _valuable_ part of most team expeditions, were it searching for emeralds, guiding populace to safety, or even thwarting organized attacks. Never got kidnapped again; while Sonic had been incessantly trying to save me from all kinds of trouble, you took it a step further and saved me from myself.

"He is almost unrecognizable when he is with you", Rouge had once remarked, while we were out shopping. It was on a warm summer's day, and I immediately felt grateful for the high temperature that had already given a reddish hue to my cheeks; that way nobody would be able to notice the blush on them. Naturally, she meant it as a compliment to our friendship, but I had been falling for you in silence for months, and phrases like that made my guts churn.

 _Falling for you._ It wasn't supposed to happen, and, in all honesty, I cannot pinpoint when, and how it began. It was like being aboard a plane and hitting an air gap; sudden, unnerving, shockingly invigorating. Some mysterious chemical balance in my mind collapsed, changed, and one day, while we were practicing hand-to-hand combat, it vaguely occurred to me that your eyes had a sort of staggering gravitational pull, and that the smell of your breath was the most erotic thing in the world. I started losing round after round because, instead of focusing on my reflexes, I kept admiring the movements of your muscles. Rather than paying attention to your reprimands following my constant mental absence, I'd get high on the timbre of your vocal rasp.

On my birthday, the whole gang had organized a surprise party, during which Sonic, against all previous indications, walked up to the bar and asked me for a quick dance. Believing my feelings to be irrational and unrequited, since you were my mentor and good friend, I convinced myself it was vital to build a life of my own, and politely accepted. This, unsurprisingly, caused uproar among the others, and while on the stage, I caught glimpses of you, separated from the pack, arms crossed almost defensively, looking glaringly uneasy. A wild predicament spread its tentacles under my skin, so once the song was over, I trudged like a robot on wobbly legs towards you. I felt, rather than heard myself ask you to accompany me, since the drum solo my heart performed muffled all other sources of sound. Instead of an answer, you gave me your hand.

The bar was spinning. I stumbled on each and every one of the steps while climbing up the dance floor, but the most embarrassing highlight of the show came when the music was swapped to a slow tempo and your right palm reached for my exposed back with no further explanation. My mind in overdrive, senses skyrocketed, eyes constantly blinking so as to clear the double vision. Thoughts in turmoil, limbs itchy in uncontrollable desire. Hyperventilation.

That same night I touched myself thinking of you.

* * *

" _Are you completely out of your goddamn mind_?"

Two hours on the surgical table, some stitches here and there, plus a visually unpleasant scar that would never completely fade away. The doctors had insisted I be left at peace for at least a couple of hours after coming around. However, as soon as my condition was deemed stable, you had violently shoved your way past nurses and paramedics, stridden across the corridor -in a havoc of screams and fleeing visitors- with the force of a war vehicle, and barged into my room. _Furious._

I unsuccessfully attempted to prop myself up and fell back on the rigid pillow. Barely wired to the world of the conscious, dazed by tons of painkillers, the last thing I needed was a heated interrogation as to why I had acted this way and not the other. To make matters worse, I was irrevocably appalled by the very idea of a needle stuck in my arm and all those bloodied bandages, and if any of those silly phobias were revealed before you I'd kill myself.

"Hey, of course I'm feeling better, thanks for asking!"

The sarcasm probably hit the right buttons because, a couple of seconds later you seemed less tense, sighed profoundly, and sat on the only available chair, next to where my bed was. Wrinkles of worry on your forehead run so deep they looked carved. A pinch of remorse started gnawing on my chest, but I instantly realized I would rather put myself between you and a million more bullets than have to see you get hurt.

Your face contorted into a mask of rage. "You think what you did was gutsy? You do realize you could get killed?"

"You do realize I did it for you?" –it was grossly unfair. I had just reacted on impulse, done the same exact thing I knew you would have done in a heartbeat had it been me the one in peril. When a troop of armed androids is threatening your city, the first thing you consider is the safety of your family. "You had your friggin' back turned on that darned cannon, you could-"

"It could have been laser. Or chaos energy. I've seen the remains of GUN agents hit by cannons like those _, whenever there are any_ , that is", you exhaled, buried your head within your hands. "Stupid girl."

Broken and forlorn, the physical pain was nothing compared to the amount of hurt. Feelings restrained for who knows how long, unwelcome yet irrepressible tears. Being called stupid after nearly sacrificing my life for you was the single cruelest slap to the face I'd ever received. Stupid for having me cut open and sewed again. Stupid for concealing my infatuation despite it growing stronger by the day.

Stupid for loving you.

I let myself go and manifested my weakness before you. And cried.

"Well, I am sorry you mean _the fucking world_ to me!"

Silence, awkward and electrified. During five years of friendship, neither of us had made such an emotional confession. Sentimentalism was unlike your style, whereas I had been busy trying to appear fierce and independent. But there we were now, me having exposed the contents of my heart like cards on a table, and you, fidgeting nervously back and forth, staring at me with genuine sorrow. In a moment of cosmic madness, you extended your arm and cupped my face, forcing our eyes to cross paths, making me die a hundred times.

"I've lost someone I loved before. I won't take it if it happens anew."

"Let go of me." –why was it that the oxygen was suddenly so scarce? Opened my throat, sucked gushes of air in, forced them out. I was asphyxiating.

"Amy-"

"I am not a second Maria. I am my own person. Let me clarify this."

"I didn't mean"-

"Please go."

I stubbornly fixed my gaze on the wall until the door closed with a small, apologetic thump. The conversation played in my head in fast forward, then something resonated, and petrified, defeated, flabbergasted, I began screaming your name until diphthongs merged together to a single, wordless howl; they had to rush in and sedate me.

 _I've lost someone I've loved before._

You had just admitted that you loved me –no matter the type of love- and I had shunned you, pushed you away like the immature clown I was.

My bandages started bleeding.

* * *

"I believe he deserves to know"

Chili dogs and sympathy. By springtime I was training to be a paramedic, and during break I'd occasionally meet with Sonic at the local diner. Our friendly outings usually consisted of me droning on about how horrendous anatomy was and him nodding stoically, but right now the discussion was veering in peculiar directions.

"Who deserves to know what?"

He laughed so hard he virtually choked on a large bite. "I am sorry Ames, but you haven't been so obvious since you chased me in pursuit of marriage. Of course I am talking about Shadow."

Knees turned to jelly, all blood drained from my face. Had it been so blatant, then? My lunch was suddenly unpalatable, stomach forming knots. People apparently understood me better than I could understand myself.

"He treats me like a younger sister. I'd make a fool of myself and spoil everything."

My friend gestured in agreement. "He still deserves to know."

* * *

Ten thirty.

You were worryingly late. We had arranged dinner for two at my place after you were done with one of those ultra-secret missions of yours. Everything had been prepared to the finest detail a few hours in advance and I, toying with Sonic's suggestions within my mind, had worn a blue dress that showed cleavage. But the sun had long set, and there had been no warning, no phone call, not a sign of you. My nerves were as tense as guitar strings; I'd storm off to one end of the kitchen, then turn on my heel and walk back, again and again, oscillating like a stalled carousel.

Then the bell rang. I unlocked, and was instantly consternated. Your face was a hot mess; glistening, crimson, approximately two inches long, an asymmetrical cut adorned your right eyebrow. You had already opened your mouth, planning -it seemed- to apologize for the delay, but I briskly yanked you by the sleeve, made you sit on the couch, and ran to the bathroom in search of medical supplies.

"You need disinfectant. And stitches."

Opening and slamming drawers, boxes all over the place. Your voice reached my ears from the living room like the echo from the far end of a tunnel.

"I am an agent, you know. I can do this on my own."

"This is what I am studying for. I will do it faster than you can."

But naturally that was wishful thinking; as soon as I positioned myself right in front of you and began working, it dawned on me that I'd never touched your face before. My palms were sweating at an improbable rate, hands trembling. We sat so quietly that the clock ticking seconds away brought me to the verge of breakdown. Your respiration periodically shifted from chaotical to borderline normal, and since I was, essentially, leaning over you, I could feel every slight breath tingle my collarbone; sending firm shivers down my spine.

In the dim light of the expiring electric lamp hovering above, you looked mesmerizingly flawless; alive, vibrant, painfully real. Lines and shapes painted in the colors of night, unwitting movements of muscles protruding under layers of clothing- they intoxicated me. Whenever my fingertips brushed against skin, desire burned through with the impact of a taser. Senses wore one another's clothes, so much so it was impossible to tell hearing from vision apart; I barely had an idea what I was doing anymore.

The stitches were done, so I promptly reached for a small piece of cotton and began wiping some traces of blood off your temple. There were drops of sweat on it, and to my growing horror, I realized we had been slipping closer to one another, and exhaled heavily. Then everything became hazy like a dream sequence; I knew it was time to stop, mortified by the mere prospect of betraying my secret and ruining our friendship, but raw instinct was pushing me forward with the force of a thousand magnets. The torture climaxed when you mechanically raised your head and we finally locked eyes.

Gravity and lightheadedness, lightheadedness and gravity; I had to finish this or else I'd need to offer explanations. Still immersed in that relentless face off, I attempted to proceed and remove the stains, but upon contact all defense systems broke, _and you inanely moaned my name._

My heart stopped, my body was so paralyzed I automatically dropped everything. Gazes still betrothed, you swiftly grabbed my left wrist that had frozen in mid-air and invitingly dragged it close to you. My fist opened of its own accord, and in the brink of unconsciousness, I caressed your face. The inebriating smell of your breath, your lips that had drifted slightly apart –it was all unbearably much to take; encasing your face with both hands I opened my mouth and inhaled just a little bit of you.

We devoured one another in an awkward, hungry kiss. Taste and sound. Temptation. Pleasure. My palms explored your neck, your chest, your waist; your fingers dag deep into my hair and slid downwards, almost leaving scorch marks. I bit your lip so hard that you squeezed me tight against you, gasped for air, and kissed me again. A violent cosmic collision took place in the overwhelming silence, and sexual overdrive was soon translated to physical pain.

Inexperienced, uncertain, in the backyard of my mind I kept wondering whether everything was done properly. What I had yearned for but deemed impossible was happening- you wanted me the same way I wanted you. But I dreaded letting you down. Dreaded doing something inappropriate and making you stop.

Your index trailed along the neckline of my dress. I was seconds away from begging you to take the thing off me when you pulled away.

"I can't do this. Sorry."

Tangled body parts –yours and mine- broke free again. I combed my messy hair with convulsing fingers, pretended to be ludicrously interested in the embroidery of a pillow, and then rid myself of an imaginary dust particle. When I attempted to steal a glimpse, your eyes radiated heartbreak. You spoke with a voice that was bitterly sober, if a little coarse; explained that you were unfixable, that guns weren't supposed to fall for girls. That if you stayed, you'd eventually paint my innocence in the colors of your past.

Every last fragment of my dignity evaporated. I threw my pride in the trash can and confessed that I loved you in a non-sisterly way, that I'd never had a boyfriend because all other men had the major flaw of not being you. That the past stays in the past and that's how things should be.

But no. You had done horrible things to fellow beings, you argued as we trudged our way to the front door. One day I'd find out. One day I'd hate you.

I wordlessly nodded, yes. I already did.

Eleven o'clock and you were gone. Returning to the living room I glared at the impeccably decorated dinner table, and boldly walked past it, deciding to leave it there until it disintegrated. Straight into the bathroom, hurriedly got undressed, entered the shower and doused myself in cold water. Without giving it much thought, and with the trickling water filling the ears with a solemn buzz, I spread my legs and slowly slid a wet finger in between them.

Curse you.

* * *

Crying days, ice cream and wine. Soap operas as lobotomy, calories for fuel.

Ugly, undesirable, brainless me, Amy the disposable sidekick, Amy the hysterical fan girl. Covered every mirror in the apartment, only because my reflection seemed so repugnant. In the privacy of my own imagination, I murdered and disfigured you in abominable ways, brutally cut into everything rendered out of reach.

Unwashed dishes formed seesawing towers in the sink, assignments for various classes remained untouched in drawers and under piles of homemade garbage. Moving about aimlessly like a zombie, I started talking to myself so as to maintain any level of sanity and failed fashionably. The phone would ring every now and then, someone would be worried, itching to verify I was still breathing, but nobody had seen or heard of you so I despised them all. And hung up.

Drinking in order to desensitize myself, embrace the numbness, consciousness came and went at irregular times. Oblivion was my best friend, sobriety the enemy. Whenever the fog dissipated a little, memories of you would tear me apart; you the would-be lover, the mentor, the best friend, the brother, the ally, the man. Hours alternated between spilling my guts over the toilet and burning photographs. Lying in bed I'd fondle my breasts and fantasize about you doing it to me, then stop and revel in self-pity; dependent, pathetic idiot.

People paraded before the front door –Vanilla, Cream, Sonic and Tails to name few- but they'd have to rip it off the hinges in order to infiltrate. I would either whisper something reassuring and ignore the reply or scream my lungs dead until they vanished. This dragged on for a few weeks; then Rouge dropped by, and instead of preaching me, she just slipped a scrap of paper across the threshold, and walked away. The message inside was laconical as much as it was unsettling.

 _He has disappeared for weeks. You should listen to your goddamn voicemail more often._

The truth stroke like a sack full of pebbles; with the spontaneity of ink dispersing in a glass of water, thoughts formed themselves. Looking past the haze of my self-absorbed delirium, I eventually understood. Your mistakes; my mistakes- weren't we inherently flawed, supposed to make part of one another's healing process?

 _I am a gun. Guns aren't supposed to fall for girls. I'll paint your innocence in the colors of my past. I've lost someone I loved before- I won't take it if it happens anew._

You were trying to protect me.

* * *

I had suspected you would be hiding in one of our training spots, and was proved correct. After a whole afternoon of erroneous guesses, I found you in a rather secluded part of the Mystic Ruins, invisible to the unknowing visitor thanks to a thick array of trees. The very sight of you instigated physical suffering; sometimes, love seemed to be working _against_ evolution, rather than for it.

A collaboration of sunset and mist gave the impression of a halo around you, shadow cast oblong on the damp grass. Even from a certain distance, your body language spoke volumes, and in spite of standing straight, the man in front of me looked shattered. Deep breaths in, deep breaths out, I approached you, one step at a time; kept repeating to myself the same mantra, over and over, hoping against hope that I'd be brave enough for the sake of us both.

It was obvious by then that you had heard the footsteps, and -given the time and place- understood who it was. You slowly turned around, eyes as runny as the humidity on a leaf, and gave me a look so scared it made you appear inches shorter. Your speaking voice had transformed into that of an insecure child.

"I am a coward."

Abused movie clichés- butterflies in my stomach. Closer and closer I got, alert and tense like an animal being preyed upon. I stopped right in front of you, and with a hundred thousand feelings piercing through my silly little heart, I balanced on the tips of my shoes and kissed you.

"That's indecent", I said, and we fell in each other's embrace, shaking in uncontrollable laughter. Happiness inflated in me. We melted inside one another, delighted, relieved, almost ready to burst.

When night fell, you took me back home and we made love for the very first time. It was brief, because we were both overdosing on an explosive mix of panic and lust, but gentle, and beautiful beyond words. Naked, doused in sweat, we snuggled close and listened to one another's heartbeat.

Holding my face as if it were a precious trophy, you promised never to leave me again.

You kept the promise.

* * *

 _ **Author's note**_ : **I had planned "Double Vision" to be my swansong for this fandom, but I kept receiving encouragement by many to "write more of this stuff" (sic) in reference to some of my more "serious" works, like _Nocebo_ and _The Wave Gazer_. This popped into my mind. Sorry for the OOCness but it plays more as an original in my head.**


	2. Midday

**Part Two: Midday**

.

* * *

.

 ** _"All I ever wanted, all I ever needed_**

 ** _Is here in my arms_**

 ** _Words are very unnecessary_**

 ** _They can only do harm."_**

 ** _~Depeche Mode,_** **Enjoy The Silence**

* * *

 **.  
**

Your ravishing, man-made eyes; they are a pitfall of sadness and despair. They almost reveal the decades your perennial youth conceals. I wish things were different for both. I wish we were trapped within an infinite time loop forcing us to relive this wonder of life incessantly, just me and you, soul mates, a person heartlessly split in two.

You nod ever so slightly, as though in comprehension of what just crossed my mind, while affectionately caressing my hand under those horrific white sheets. If only you'd stop touching me so much; there are so many wrinkles on this dehydrated, deformed, useless body of mine. But your hands are warm, and tender, and you hang on so firmly it hurts. Don't bite your lips. We both know that only one of us will be exiting this building in a few minutes. It's okay, though; I already feel immortal, since there is this tiny bit of me that thrives inside you.

The nurse walks in daintily, and she is gawking at you- probably because you told her earlier that you were the "husband". She says " _it's time"_ and it is impossible not to feel sorry for the girl, even in my condition- she looks devastated. We are, of course, no typical couple, and the occasion isn't exactly a fortunate one. You look at her as if she were a criminal and ask for some extra minutes.

She immediately turns on her heel and disappears in a flash. A thin line of mascara is streaming down her cheek.

.

.

* * *

.

Instinctive moans, playful whispers, the erotic susurration of flesh grinding against flesh. Breasts pressed against your shirtless torso, nails plunged in your back, I reveled in the painful bliss of friction. For many months I had needed you inside me like a maniac; we'd have sex on my bed, on the floor, against the wall, on the kitchen table, in the shower. Neighbors said we were trouble; I'd teasingly joke they were only jealous of the action.

That specific afternoon we'd been so loud people had actually called in order to complain. You had hung up, a smug if utterly kissable smirk on your lips, and ordered me to open the windows; once they were all agape, I slyly welcomed you between parted thighs. Through a glorious bedlam of giggles and lustful shrieks, we graced everyone with a memorable concert.

We stayed in bed until dusk, exhausted but thrilled. It was Saturday, so we were both free to idly enjoy the peace. Lying together, two silhouettes outlined against the red light of sunset, we held one another and wished for time to stop. Fingers trailing absent minded patterns on my stomach, you kept looking at me in a manner that was more telltale than any confession in the world, permeating all biological matter and creeping deep into layers of soul. The golden afterglow cast unearthly shadows on your smile; flaming shimmers flickered in your eyes.

I swung my feet to the side, stood up, and briskly covered my nudity under a shirt.

"Where are you going?"

"To fetch my cell phone."

You propped yourself up and gave me an utterly mystified peek. "What are you up to?"

"You should see the look on your face. I just want to take a picture of you."

Breathy laughter, a slight chuckle. Arms folded before your chest. "You won't dare."

Still fumbling deep inside a pile of thrown clothes that rested upon the armchair, I turned around and pouted like a child. "Why?"

"Because you know I _despise_ being photographed."

Having found what I wanted in the back pocket of my jeans, I sent a pillow flying to your direction and started modifying the camera settings. Barely having had the chance to recoil, you gave me a lovable if slightly annoyed glare.

"Amy, I am _serious_."

"And what makes you believe I am not?"

I was now watching you through the screen, handsome, uneasy and moderately amused. Half-angry, half-laughing, you raised your arm and tried to hide your face with the spontaneity of a star noticed by paparazzi; it was obvious that you hated the very idea, nevertheless humorously endured the torture because of me.

Zoom in. "Come on, Mr. Ultimate, give us an ultimate smile."

Your attempt to keep a straight face and play serious was abruptly interrupted by a snort, and you dissolved in sniggers. It was a rare sight, and the fact that I had been the one to trigger it filled me with contentment.

Click.

"But I am so much more interesting when I brood."

Click.

"Aw, _shut up,_ you made me laugh and the picture's _blurry_!"

Click.

"Stop photographing me then."

"Shh. Don't move. You're perfect this way."

More clicks. Through the frame I kept admiring your face, relaxed, well-defined, a phantasmagorical intercourse between light and darkness. The frail sun rays penetrating the gap between the window curtains intensified your jaw-line, your shoulders, the way your head was casually resting on your fist- you looked like a breathtakingly alive charcoal drawing.

My eyes slipped above the camera and right into yours. I smiled. "You've got sex written all over your face."

You smiled back. "You, too."

We took impromptu pictures of one another until darkness embraced the room. They were all so beautiful that we decided to have them printed first thing in the morning, and cherished them ever since. They must still exist somewhere in our house, in a cupboard, in a drawer, in a place I could be sure I'd never accidentally come across them again.

.

* * *

.

We didn't exactly decide to live together; neither of us was particularly fond of making plans and-given your inexperience with relationships- opening a discussion on long-term commitment seemed like a daunting prospect. The passage of time has its own way of achieving things, however, and gradually your shirts fell hopelessly in love with my dresses, your data files found shelter close to my medicine books. I remember reading somewhere that life is a trait one sort of acquires; the house started breathing two separate breaths, living two separate, intertwined quotidianities; yours and mine. Instead of officially moving in, reality somehow got warped _so that you_ _had been there_ _all along_.

When the walls became suffocating, we ran wild. We'd travel on your motorbike or simply Chaos Control to places you had discovered during various expeditions. If I try real hard, I can still feel the sunshine, see the open road stretching ahead for countless miles, taste the skyrocketing euphoria, the freedom. Exploration was, beyond harmless escapism, a vessel through which we got to know one another better; while we were still friends, I had misjudged you as being moody, restrained, quiet. Now your full-fledged persona unfolded before me like a patchwork; your adventure-craving spirit and loud mind, the scars that would never heal, the pleasure of spending time alone, but together. In return, you uncovered me, accepted and loved every flaw, every tiny insecurity lingering in my heart.

Entire nights were often spent outdoors, lying on the soft grass and spotting constellations, listening to the waves crush into rocks, or watching a rainstorm from the safety of a cave. Sometimes words failed us both and you imprisoned me in your whimsical gaze for hours on end, as if trying to take the mental equivalent of a photograph. Sometimes it all was unspeakably overwhelming, and my self esteem collapsed under the weight of what I now had. Me, the former spastic, me the average girl; one day you'd realize you could do much better. And leave me.

.

* * *

.

 _Blurry lights flickered in the distance. People were screaming somewhere, but their voices were so distorted it felt as if I'd been hearing them with my head submerged in water. Pain bled through my throat, vibrated in my vocal folds with the patience of a paper knife. Somehow it dawned on me that the screams were my own, and even through virtually blind, I kept reaching out for you, conscious of your impending arrival._

 _There was the familiar patter of feet against metal. Propelling myself forward with all of my might, fingers eventually touched glass. Glass! How were we supposed to escape this frightening station with an unbreakable wall between us?_

 _You threw yourself against the prohibitive surface, throwing punches like a madman. Don't cry, you kept bellowing in panic. I am here. I love you more than anything._

 _Something was amiss. Reality didn't feel quite real. A wild premonition soared like a tidal wave within me. Looking down with foggy eyes, the view of my own abdomen soaked in blood left me paralyzed. I saw the end approach and, too tired to make any sense of it all, apologized for being so insecure and selfish. You deserved so much more. So much more._

 _"I've lost someone I loved before." you whispered, and it was oddly reminiscent of something else. My attempts to make eye contact were hampered by strands of luscious blonde curls. I touched them incredulously, wondering how they got there in the first place. But of course, they were mine. As was the blue dress._

 _Maria's dress._

"Amy."

Head mechanically jerked up, eyes flashed wide open. There was a subtle click and your face assumed shape in the dim lamp-light.

"Hmm?"

"You've been dreaming."

Mind somnambulant, thoughts wandering, I propped myself on both elbows and pushed forward. The nightmare flashed before me for a fraction of a second, like the strike of lightning in clean skies. Screams and gunshots. An outdated blue dress. A cascade of golden locks. The scattered recollections were so intense they caused my fingers to instinctively curl and snatch at the bed sheets.

"Did I wake you up?"

"I don't need sleep."

The bleak reverberation of the dream faded momentarily, and my attention shifted to the declaration which, deep in the heart of the night, sounded incomprehensible. _I don't need sleep._ But we'd been living together long enough for mystery to disappear between us. I could recall seeing you sleep on a thousand occasions, even the specific sounds you produced from time to time.

"I've seen you sleep." –the words were put there on purpose, but only to eliminate the silence. There was a hint of hurt on your face, voice intentionally colorless.

"Normal - people do it."

The conversation, brief per se, began saddening me in a multitude of ways, as if I could remember an accident that had yet to happen.

"Normal isn't that great." I stammered. You shrugged.

"I wouldn't possibly know. I've never been anything besides myself."

My eyes froze at the ceiling, following the uncertain line between light and darkness. Feeling stupid and inadequate, I unwittingly thought out loud.

"Shadow?"

"Yes?"

"Why me, of all people?"

The question was extremely vague, but for some reason you got the message. There was a sigh, and the answer hit me in all its brutal honesty like a verbal avalanche.

"Because my demons like yours."

There was another click, and the room went dark anew. In the total blackness, I felt you fumble next to my pillow, so I turned around, and searched for your lips.

.

* * *

.

"You _what?_ "

At least half a dozen heads turned around and stared. Embarrassment made me sink in the chair, but soon people lost interest and the diner went back to the lively hum of chatter.

"Can you keep it down? I don't understand your excitement."

It was the last day of the semester. One more exam and the countless hours spent in labs and public libraries, the living hell that had been my post-grad- it'd all be over. We had decided, with the help of a -movingly enthusiastic- Rouge to organize and throw a party at her place; that, however, would have to wait for a couple of weeks, since my friend's house had recently been renovated and you were away due to an ongoing investigation. In the meantime, Sonic and I were sharing our weekly ritual for what would be the last time.

"I just can't believe it, Ames. You are so damn attached to him."

The implication was so outrageous I nearly risked self-combustion. "We've discussed it, and he doesn't see it that way, _at all_. We'll be working in completely different departments, anyway. And there's Rouge. They've been partners for ages."

He threw the remnants of his chili-dog back in the plastic plate and averted his face as a sign of wordless contempt. Something about the angered figure before me was so off-putting that rendered it impossible not to wonder how the carefree boy of my childhood memories had changed so drastically without me noticing.

"I've known you since we were kids. You want me to believe that your career ambitions _include the fucking GUN_?"

"What makes you think my life revolves around men?"

"The fact that you applied for the _fucking GUN!_ There are thousands of jobs available to a trained paramedic-"

"-With a post-grad on biological weapons-"

"Yeah, even so. _Thousands_ , Ames."

"You forget that I'm also a skilled combatant", I retorted sternly, annoyed and infinitely disappointed in Sonic's poor judgment of my intentions. "Or would it be more girly of me to just settle for paperwork and blood tests?"

The ensuing pause, though prolonged, was filled with the occasional chewing sound, or the nervous drumming of nails on the metallic bench. It was supposedly a happy day, something of a celebration; that specific moment, however, it dawned on me that a wall, a sneaky but impenetrable wall was being built, brick by brick, between us and the rest of the world. The situation was disheartening, but real- and it scared me to death when I caught myself thinking what you probably would: _we have each other anyway._

"Tails says you've forgotten all about him."

My eyebrows mechanically slid towards one another in conjoint surprise.

"Of course I haven't!"

"Oh, really? When was the last time you called him? Or visited his workshop?"

"..." –Lips moved of their own accord, ready to blurt out an answer; my brain's reluctant verdict suggested otherwise, so the words were left hanging. Sonic nervously fumbled in his pockets, pulled out some coins, and neatly arranged them in a small tower before him.

"Keep the change", he growled before dashing off.

An abrupt gush of wind sent the napkins flying over the adjacent sidewalk. I watched them drift farther and farther away, until there was only a pack of dots fading into the vast horizon.

.

* * *

.

" _Can I have your attention, please?_ "

Repetitive and urgent, the clang of metal against glass made us all turn around. The almost comically unusual sight of you, stiffly upright as you posed for what looked like a toast, caused every conversation in the room to cease. Someone I didn't recognize sidled sideways and discreetly lowered the music volume.

" _Today, as you all know, we are celebrating Amy's post-grad success..."_ -there was something grotesquely off about the speech, and it made me smile, because I knew how difficult it was for you to do detach yourself from the recluse mindset and become the centre of attention. Your eyes roamed the surroundings, scanning the small crowd in search of mine. Once our gazes met, they froze there, and a grin lit your face; you seemed to be at ease again.

"(...) _naturally, we'd all seen it coming, because she also happens to kick ass_."

The remark was met with laughs and enthusiastic gestures of agreement. Someone in the background whistled.

 _"I know this is not my news to share, nor is it my achievement to discuss, but I also see this toast as an opportunity to thank her for all the things she is; a brilliant mind, one of the best goddamn fighters I've ever seen, an incredible markswoman, but most importantly, a beautiful soul. I know this probably better than anyone else, since we've been together for nearly four years now, and she has saved me in unimaginable ways..."_

A brand new idea arisen in my mind, I began skipping anxiously from heel to heel, trying to conceal my nervousness behind a smile of delight. The beautiful introduction, all those tender words; I was starting to suspect where this was going, and although itching to share the news with everyone, my train of thought kept returning to the disconcerting rendezvous with Sonic and Tails' alleged disappointment in me.

We had discussed the whole incident thoroughly, of course. And you had been supportive and understanding of both me and my friends. But, like every other twenty-something on Mobius, I was at a loss with the path my life was taking. Had I made the right decision? Was it really _, wholly_ mine? Was I involuntarily turning myself into a female version of _you_?

The speech was now being processed somewhere in the back of my head. Tails was standing some meters ahead, plastic glass in hand, slowly taking sips off his beer. I caught myself examining his body language. He was seemingly paying attention to what you were saying, beaming in a manner that implied he shared our happiness. No hard feelings, not a single trace of belying bitterness.

 _I will try to be there for you more. For all of you. I am still Amy. I am still me._

But where was Sonic? My heightening panic began to manifest itself, and I wiped a pair of sweaty hands against the hem of my dress. He had come to the party even though we'd feared otherwise. We'd even exchanged a couple of harmless words. And now he was nowhere to be seen.

I nudged at Cream's rib. "Have you seen Sonic?"

She seemed to consider the question for a second, and then gave up. "Nope. Maybe he had to use the bathroom?"

"Yeah. Maybe."

Sonic used to hide somewhere and smoke whenever he was upset. It was a bad habit he'd picked up after a few parties at Club Rouge, where practically everyone smoked. That thought wasn't helpful. Was he, indeed, upset? Or even worse- could he be hiding in order to avoid the announcement?

 _Oh my God. I hope he doesn't think it's a marriage proposal or something_.

.

. _{{{Amy..?}}}_

 _{{{Ames...?}}}_

 _._

There was an abrupt absense of sound that hit the ears louder than a gunshot would. As if having suddenly been teleported to another dimension I focused a pair of foggy eyes on what was happening outside the boundaries of my mind and virtually got a heart attack; more than a dozen heads were now turned to my general direction, like aerials trying to receive a better signal. The voice calling my name was yours.

"Ames? Do you mind?"- your heightening bafflement had resulted in a progressively more furrowed brow.

 _Do you mind?  
_ Mind what?

.

In the privacy of my thoughts I tried to replicate the last phrases spoken. Something about sharing news. Then something about me applying for the GUN. But of course! You wanted me to step forward and announce the official reply in person. I ought to be grateful. I ought to be thrilled.

Why was I not thrilled?

Shaky, drousy, barely wired to the real world, I carried my body a few feet forward, where the small crowd had intentionally left an empty space. I turned around to face them like an actor that forgets his lines while in the spotlight. _My friends_. Some of them would occasionally hang out with you as well, and there was also Rouge in the back row, holding a camera up, but for the most part the room was filled with people that were _my_ friends.

Was I betraying them all? Was I simply developing as a person, or was Sonic right when he said that you had altered the way my mind ticked?

 _Where was Sonic_?

.

"I... um."

.

Their eyes. All those pairs of eyes staring at me. Did they think I was being manipulated into making these life choices?

"The reply came this morning. I thought- I thought you guys would be happy to know I was accepted for practice. I am officially a member of the GUN's bioterrorism research team."

The audience of the show breaks into a thunderous applause, accompanied by the occasional whistle. You took my hand and called me your comrade for the first time ever. The pride bubbling in your speaking tone, the heated excitement all around- they reassured me, if momentarily. Thinking, rather than feeling, that I was exactly where I ought to be, I fell in your arms and we shared a quick kiss.

It was at that exact moment thet I saw Sonic appear from the corridor in the far end of the living room. It was only with the corner of my eye and very briefly, because it only took him a few seconds to crush a cigarette butt under his shoe and storm off through the front door.

A pang of guilt paralyzed me, so I made a mental memo to visit him and put things right first thing in the morning.

.

.

This was the last time I saw him.

Alive, that is.


End file.
